Chapter 2
TWO
“No one is dying at Longbourn,” Elizabeth said, half-horrified, following her aunt into the front hall. “No one is dying, Uncle!”
She looked at Mr Philips climbing the stairs and realised he was not alone. Was that Mr Darcy? She backed a step into the parlour. Indeed, it was Mr Darcy, in her aunt’s house. She hurried to him. “You have been permitted to leave Netherfield?”
He stared at her, apparently struck dumb at the very sight of her. “Miss Elizabeth?”
“Yes, yes. You are not among the ill at Netherfield?”
He removed his hat and shook his head a little. “I went to town yesterday and returned to Netherfield only a short time ago. I was turned away by a maid who informed me the household is unwell.”
“With the trots,” said her aunt in an exaggerated whisper.
Elizabeth flushed with embarrassment and could not look at Mr Darcy, who continued his explanation.
“I came to Meryton, whereupon learning the inn had no available rooms, your uncle was kind enough to invite me here.”
“Here.” Here? Oh, this would not do. She was to spend the night here!
Mr Philips spoke for the first time. “Sir William was eager to host Mr Darcy, but our rooms are more plentiful, our beds softer, and we have no unmarried daughters.” He gave his wife a sly smile Elizabeth knew far too well; they had bested the Lucases in securing Mr Darcy as company, a victory which would be much discussed and celebrated with her mother.
A glance at the prize goose showed Mr Darcy to be as uncomfortable with his position as he deserved, and she felt a moment’s pity for him.
He is pained to be in company with my family; becoming my aunt’s houseguest—once again sharing a roof with me—is a wretched prospect indeed.
Mrs Philips spoke next in a voice more akin to Miss Bingley’s prideful and cloying tones than her own.
“Lucas Lodge is nothing to our home. It will be an honour to host you, Mr Darcy,” she cooed, her eyes agleam with eagerness.
“We can do no less than put you in our finest room!” Turning to Elizabeth, she added, again sounding like Mrs Bennet, “You shall have the other room, Lizzy, with the striped green paper. You have always liked green.”
Elizabeth preferred orange or purple to that hideous shade of green stripe her aunt had chosen for the smaller guest chamber, but merely smiled.
Of course, the illustrious Mr Darcy must have the finest chambers.
Moments earlier, before her uncle arrived with his trophy, Mrs Philips had been describing the roast they would enjoy tonight—the finest cut from the butcher, purchased under the nose of the Robinsons’ cook; there was no doubt that Mr Darcy would have the largest, most succulent slice.
Will he find any of it tolerable?
Her aunt began babbling about tea and enquiring whether Mr Darcy might wish to see his room and refresh himself.
Elizabeth bit back a laugh, watching as he was led away as if to his doom.
Has he just recalled she is my mother’s sister?
A little more refined and somewhat less prone to gossip, what with being the wife of the town’s busiest solicitor, but still, her aunt was preening at the opportunity to host the man with ‘ten-thousand a year’ in her home.
Mrs Philips’s inelegance did not quite match that of Mrs Bennet, but Elizabeth thought it would be a great tax on Mr Darcy’s forbearance.
Both of the Gardiner sisters stood in too much awe of him to speak with any fluency or with the fawning familiarity which Sir William assumed; yet whenever either did speak, it was unrefined and grasping.
‘How many rooms is your house?’ ‘How many carriages?’ ‘Have you often been to the court of St James’s? ’
Could her aunt rise to the occasion as hostess to the estimable Mr Darcy?
Would she use every conversation and observation as seed for a revelation to share with her friends?
Was her respect for him, though it may lessen her loudness, at all likely to make her more discerning?
She could only hope Mr Philips, quiet and colourless except in relation to his rival, Sir William, would prove capable of engaging in conversation with a man nearly as taciturn as himself.
No, it would be incumbent on her to shield Mr Darcy from the too-frequent notice of her uncle and aunt.
Astonishing! I am to protect a man I dislike for his pride in order to protect that very pride.
The very perversity of it made her laugh.
Despite the juxtaposition of amazement and dismay in her present circumstance, Elizabeth called for tea and went to the drawing room, a beautiful, comfortable space that hosted Meryton’s best card parties.
She stood at the window, watching puddles form in the street and wondering about her family’s health.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
She turned around and found her fellow guest looking no less ill at ease than she felt. “Mr Darcy.”
He took a few steps towards her, but not before she saw him look with interest at the tray of breads, cheeses, and fruit on the table. Realising he likely had not eaten since leaving London, she gestured to a chair. “Please sit. If you are half so famished as I, we should not stand on ceremony.”
He took her meaning, and after she sat on the sofa, took a chair on the other side of the table.
As she began to prepare two cups, he spoke.
“I apologise for the imposition here, on your aunt and uncle, whilst you too are taking refuge in their home. It is a somewhat awkward situation, and were it not for the condition of the roads, I would spare you and demand entry to Netherfield. However, I do not wish to insult the Philips, who have been quite gracious, nor do I especially care to be in a household full of, um...”
“Sick, demanding, complaining people?” She looked up from the sugar bowl. “Any lumps?”
Her amusement in the situation seemed to surprise him; he nodded, a small smile on his lips. “Yes, to both of your queries. Just the one, thank you.”
“Truly, Mr Darcy, if you wish to be gracious to my aunt, eat something. Preferably in large amounts, as she, like my mother, adores having guests to feed.” She handed him his cup, waiting for him to frown in recognition of exactly whose house hospitality he had accepted.
Instead his smile held. “Your aunt, like your mother, sets a fine table.”
Pleased, she watched as he added blackberries, cheese, and bread to his plate and began eating.
She was not one to stare—that was his habit—but Mr Darcy was an interesting creature, particularly when out of familiar waters.
She had always known that he was wealthy, accepted that he was handsome, and learnt that he was as intelligent as he was proud.
But this, the sight of him devouring her aunt’s lemon biscuits, provided her a view of him as a much more ordinary man.
At least until her aunt entered the room and his expression slipped briefly.
Mrs Philips joined them by the fire, and clasping her hands, looked at Mr Darcy’s crumb-filled plate. “You found something to your liking, sir?”
Looking pained, he nodded, too well-mannered to speak with a mouthful of biscuit and jam.
The lady took the opportunity to speak at length on the comfort he would find in her home and the thickness of the walls and glass windowpanes that would keep them all warm and dry during the storm that now was growing more severe.
When she ceased her monologue to draw breath, Mrs Philips looked at Mr Darcy expectantly.
He nodded and with a sincere expression, said, “I am grateful for your hospitality, madam. I am certain I shall sleep as comfortably here as in any bed at my estate, which admittedly, can be somewhat draughty.”
“Oh!” Mrs Philips blushed with obvious pleasure.
Elizabeth stared, dumbfounded at his loquaciousness. He was not done astounding her.
“The refreshments were excellent. As you see, I was quite hungry.” Mr Darcy added a smile to his praise. “I have a fine cook at Pemberley but it will take some effort not to compare your fine biscuits to hers when I return there.”
The lady’s hands fluttered. “I thank you, and will be certain to tempt you further with dinner.”
Elizabeth barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes.
Her aunt had a cook who also served as housemaid; every loaf of bread and every biscuit and scone served at their home came from Mr Culton’s bakery two doors away.
Pride is a terrible thing, she thought, but of course Mr Darcy is familiar with it.
Nonetheless, she had to credit him for his compliments to her aunt, however undeserved; the lady, whom she had lately seen as the Kitty to Mama’s Lydia, was deeply pleased and to the end of her days, would enjoy sharing the tale of Mr Darcy’s residence here.
She certainly has elicited more words from him than is usual!
Mr Darcy rose. “If you will excuse me, I have a letter to write.”